Sinners and Sufferers
by WonderWeasel
Summary: Spoilers for Issue Six. They never even asked Jekyll. [Some slash content.]


Author: V. F. Weasel

Disclaimer: Robert Louis Stevenson, Alan Moore, Kevin O'Neill, the usual. Not me, at any rate. 

Rating: PG – 13

Pairing: Jekyll/Mina, Hyde/Mina

Summary: "And I tried to find you but it's useless. And I felt so bad, and I didn't know why and it didn't get better as time went by. I was there for you, but you turned away. And I tried to speak but it's useless…" – _Can't See (Useless)_, Boingo

Spoilers: Vol. II, #6

Title: Sinners and Sufferers

_"But at least that will be when **I** say so. I wouldn't give Jekyll the satisfaction."_

_- Hyde, Vol. II, #5_

The thing that to his mind would have attained a level of emotion nearly obscene to him, upon reflection, was how Edward had never even asked if _he_ was ready to die. Certainly, Edward had decided to be heroic – but what of him, what of Henry? He had never meant to let his life get so out of control, to become a willing plaything of another, but it had, and while that damns him now, to the very last moment he longs for justification in the indignity he feels.  

And that's the tragedy of Jekyll and Hyde - Henry's every waking thought is tainted by the dark presence of Edward, while Henry might as well be a fly buzzing in his ear, or the gristle in his teeth for all the attention he pays him. 

But then, things have changed, as Henry knew they would, and as Edward had, so long ago, appeared one day without a fatal sip, Henry has found that he can at least talk to him still. Whether Edward listens or not is another matter entirely – but there is a bittersweet comfort in the fact that his voice is still there, in the body that he once controlled. 

The lines are blurring, Henry has noticed. Hidden away upon some distant shelf in Edward's mind, he'll speak – and the words will come out of Edward's mouth. Twisted, sometimes, mangled and vulgar, but it will have been his idea, and that is the important part. He did it this very morning – as Edward shaved and dressed, and heard a rattle from behind him, Henry longed for death – and Edward greeted it, with considerable creative license, but _it was Henry's thought_. 

And that is when he knows that something bad will happen – that somehow, the situation at hand will meet and combust like gas in an engine. The fact that Edward – consciously or not – took any suggestion from him at all was an ill omen indeed, and now Henry sees the horror it signified. 

Now, Henry is as far from control is possible, a prisoner of a brutal war in his own mind, and it's Edward who kisses Mina, but it's Henry who suggests it. (The hand on her breast, the feel of her heart thudding underneath fingers, is an amalgam of them both – the sexual urge of Edward, the emotional urge of Henry, and it serves to please them both.) 

Both of them pause – take in the single bead of sweat on her forehead, the slight pooch of her bottom lip, the knit of her brow, the sheen of tears over deep green eyes. In Edward's head, taking her in like one would an extraordinary painting, Henry has no doubt that Griffin deserved everything Edward gave him, and he isn't sure whether that's Edward's influence on him or his own on Edward that waters the thought to bloom.

And it sets in, and Henry is both proud of – and intimidated by – Edward's decision. This is the end – the real end, not a poorly planned suicide attempt from which Edward was quick to save him, or a hurried confession written and left for his few friends so that he would make his ferry in time. 

Henry wants to be the hero, for once – he feels bitter satisfaction at the tears on Mina's cheek as Allan stands behind her and watches dispassionately as Edward starts off – but he realizes, in a moment of utter cowardice, that he does not want to die any more than he did when he nearly let Hyde loose in Shanghai Charlie's. 

But it is happening, and Edward is running and jumping and _singing_ to his own execution – a song that Henry is rather fond of, and is, at very least, pleased to know that it will be his makeshift funeral march. 

And as the first wave of pain – horrible, burning pain – overtakes Edward, Henry watches with worry and mild apathy, and says, "Do get us out of this, Edward. Please." As he says the words, he understands entirely that they won't be coming back, not ever, and that when the black knight goes under, there's no one to ride in and save him. 

As Edward rises again and attacks the Tripod, Henry thinks back to near the beginning, almost a year after he had first let loose Edward. He'd returned to London briefly, lonely for home and longing for the companions he'd had there, though he didn't dare approach them. By chance, he'd passed Utterson in the street, and Utterson had dragged him home for a quick scotch and a catching up. 

"We'd thought you'd killed yourself, Henry! It was a fanciful tale you wrought, too, to explain where you'd gone… and a cruel trick of yours." Utterson had said, a little hurt in his voice. Henry had sat very stiff, nervously twisting his hands, and glancing at him as Hyde – less civilized and less noticeable, in the way that a quiet voice may be the loudest of all when one is not used to it – uttered oaths and fury against his old friend. 

"It was not meant to be a trick. I do apologize, Gabriel – I meant no malice by it." He'd said, and he'd barely been able to look at Utterson. 

There was a silence – and then Utterson smiled again and put his hand out, leaning forward and clapping it over Henry's shoulder. 

"I am glad to see you again, Henry, but what of this Hyde business? I didn't understand it at all. The man is a murderer! And you say that he…" 

"Is me," Henry had said wearily, looking straight into Utterson's face and shaking frailly. "I spoke the truth. Hyde and I are bound. If he would let me, then I would make right what he has done." 

Utterson frowned. "I don't think that you can, Henry. Sir Danvers – why, you'd be hanged. What will you do, now that you're back? You're _dead_, by all accounts… you've nothing left." 

Henry had stared off into the carpet for a moment, mind very far away as he said, "Nothing at all. I only came… for a visit. I'll be off again tomorrow." 

"But surely… an address, someplace that I could reach you…?" Utterson had asked, rising as Henry rose. 

"No, Gabriel. I think it best…" Henry had trailed off. "I am a murderer." 

"You said yourself, it was Hyde." 

"And Hyde is me!" Henry had snapped in frustration. "What will get that through your bloody skull?" The rage had passed as quickly as it had come, and he'd taken a step back, horrified with himself. "I'm sorry… I am… sorry, Gabriel. He's… here, constantly. It's as if he's speaking even as I do, and it's very hard to tell apart the words…" 

"You're ill, Henry. You look horrible – you've gotten so thin, and _shrunk_…" Utterson had said, reaching an arm around him. "You could stay here. There are doctors… and supposedly, these alienists…" 

Henry had not listened as he continued on about a cure. He'd instead noticed the proximity of Utterson to his own person, and felt, greater than ever, the loneliness weigh on his shoulders, bear down against the back of his neck, constrict his throat and tighten his stomach. 

"A great friend, Gabriel," He had murmured. "A great friend you've been." 

And he'd kissed Utterson – rather awkwardly – and seizing his arms, to hold him in place as much as further an intimate entanglement. It had lasted a moment or so – in which Hyde was louder than ever, and the desired peace at contact had never come – before Utterson had torn away, shoving him off angrily. 

"Good god, what are you doing?" He'd demanded. 

"I'm sorry," Henry had sounded pathetic, and he knew it. "I only thought – it's just… I'm going _mad_, Gabriel." 

"You've gone _deviant_, not mad." Utterson said, flustered. "You've confessed to murder – and you're a… _sodomite_." 

"You cared, more than anyone else." Henry still babbled on. "And before, back in school… and you've always… and I…" 

"Henry, I do let my offer stand. I am not that poor a friend," Utterson said uncomfortably. "And I won't tell anyone I've seen you, or that… I do care about you. You're my friend, my greatest friend, before this Hyde nonsense. But you're _mad_, Henry, bloody mad. And we cannot…" He lowered his voice. "If anyone found out, Henry, we'd both be locked away." His voice was low and conspiratorial. "It's two years hard labor, Henry. I don't think either of us could survive that." 

"No," Henry said, troubled. "I think… I think it best I go…" 

"It's not…" Utterson stopped, an odd parenthetical halt to his voice. "If we were…" He stopped. "We are, of course, still friends, aren't we?" 

"Yes. Yes, of course. It was foolish of me. I'll… go." Henry turned, and even as the words were spoken, the wave of anger came over him – _it was him, always putting an arm around me or resting his hand on my leg, and what else was I supposed to think, unless it was that, because a man doesn't simply…and when you met him and he was in school, and he had that questionable meeting with that boy…- _and then, with it came the change, and to this day, Henry could hear Utterson's shouts as Hyde took him apart, piece by piece. 

It was the first time Henry hadn't needed the potion to change – almost a graduation from his the first leg of his life with Edward, an honest fusion of monster and man that seemed to prove that there was no getting rid of him, and he would have to live with him – if you could call this sorry example of existence a life. 

And now, as Edward burns in flame, Henry is dying with him. 

He permits himself a short fantasy – where he is younger, and tall and strapping as he once was, and where he returns to his old house, and instead of locking himself in a laboratory, there's Mina to greet him with a kiss and friendly words. 

He's not sure whether it's him or Edward that wants it so – and the question is easily answered when he reaches a hand for hers, and it is gigantic and brown and knotted. 

His own fantasy saturates it, his own desire – and, he is young, still, but this time, when he returns it is to Utterson's home, and there is no static voice in his head or violence on his mind, and it is all very safe and very warm as they talk into the night, and the surprising softness of Utterson's lips on his own is a lovely thought to die to.

Edward's shouting permeates the reverie, but Henry does not let it in – no, he knows the pain, can feel it himself, but if he wills it far enough away, it will not be real. 

And is that – Edward is _mocking _them, to the very end. And for the first time in years, Henry envies Edward – that he can go with a bravado and swinging fists, that he can die raising his voice in song, and still insulting his enemies, and not cringing and crawling and pleading for his life, the way Henry would. 

"Are we going to do this?" He whispers to Edward. "Are we really going to do this? Are you going to kill us?" 

He doesn't expect an answer, but to his surprise, one comes. "It will save her. And England. Isn't that what you always wanted, Henry? To be _good_?" 

"I always thought I'd live to enjoy it," Henry mumbles back. "I always thought I'd be there to see the good England we protected." 

And Edward says perhaps the most sensible thing anyone ever has to him, and that bothers him: "Don't be such a bloody woman, Henry. I'm going to make you a hero." 

As Edward eats the alien, Henry is too busy resigning himself to retch – though, if he had his body now, he certainly would. He's steadying himself for death, and hoping for the safe room where he might speak with Utterson until the early hours of the morning, or perhaps hold Mina's hand and admire her profile in the firelight, instead of the octopus – like aliens and fire, scorching fire, fire that loosens the skin and turns Edward black as the night sky and wrinkled as an old man – that he knows will devour him for eternity. 


End file.
